White Wolf, Black Raven
by GreyWolfKnight
Summary: Seven years after the events of Blood and Wine, Geralt has lived comfortably in his villa in Toussaint. However when an "old friend" returns from beyond with grave news, the Sword of Destiny must rise to save the world once again from the black terror of the Darkest Dungeon.
1. Chapter 1

_White Wolf, Black Raven_

A Witcher/Darkest Dungeon Crossover

By Alexander Raines (Grey Wolf Knight)

**Chapter 1 - Waking the White Wolf**

"I told you I'd be back."

Geralt woke with a start. His sheets were stained with cold sweat and his breaths came in great gusting gulps. He found his hand was gripped around the handle of the steel sword he kept by his bedside, halfway drawn from his scabbard.

It was, perhaps fittingly, a dark and stormy night with the rain falling in sheets against the window above his bed in Corvo Bianco. The candles had all been snuffed out hours ago, but Geralt's mutated cat eyes allowed him moderate sight in the darkness. His eyes saw nothing, but his reflexes were screaming at him that someone else was in the house and nearby. Someone unwelcome and of odious intent. What's more, his medallion was vibrating like a full mug during an earthquake.

Geralt emerged from his bed without a sound and drew the sword to its full length, holding it in a one handed ready position while the other was prepared to cast warding magic. The veteran witcher slowly, quietly, stepped down the stairs from the bedroom into the dining room. The candles were already lit and gave off a blue flame. Geralt didn't need them or his medallion to tell him that magic was at work here.

"Come now, Geralt. Is that really any way to treat a guest? Especially an old friend?"

A man stepped out from the shadows and into the light. He was bald and was dressed like a merchant hit upon hard times. Yet despite his relatively poor dress he had a trickster's smile and eyes that glinted with cheeky intelligence. If you knew to look for it, you'd see the malevolence behind that smile and those eyes. They were the kind of eyes belonging to one who enjoyed causing misery and pain to others, and never felt a shred of guilt or conscious.

"We're not friends," Geralt said, lowering the sword and relaxing his muscles, but kept his mind wound as tightly as a ballista's strings. There was no defense, physical or magical, that could be summoned to repel a creature such as this. "What do you want, O'Dimm?"

Gaunter O'Dimm smiled disarmingly at Geralt. He opened his arms in an expansive gesture, saying, "Down to business already? But we've got so much to catch up on! I mean look at you! Seven years and three months ago you were a travelling vagabond like me, scraping by on whatever coin you could make. Now you're retired from Witchering! You own your own vineyard and live in luxury! I must say you've done extremely well for yourself. Though it must be lonely sleeping by yourself."

"Get to the point, O'Dimm," Geralt growled, not bothering to hide his impatience. "What do you want?"

"What do I want?" Gaunter O'Dimm said, as if that was something so obvious and trivial. "I want to help you, Geralt!"

"I don't need your help," Geralt stated flatly, swiping with his free hand as if wiping away a stain.

"But you do!" O'Dimm persisted. "It's about young Cirilla! She's gone missing!"

Geralt lifted his sword into a fighting stance and felt the fires of Igni come to his lips, but he managed to not flame broil the man-shaped creature. Instead he demanded, "What have you done to Ciri?"

"Nothing!" O'Dimm said with a guileless tone, hands raised. "I've done nothing to her, besides keep an eye on her. Got to keep an eye on those children of the Elder Blood. Thing is, she went world hopping again, and she's disappeared from my sight. I think that as her adoptive father you'd care a lot more than me about where she's gone off to."

Geralt said nothing, carefully considering his words. Rash decision making was O'Dimm's stock and trade. What he said might technically be true, but there was always a catch. Always an angle he was pushing.

"Don't bullshit me, O'Dimm," Geralt stated. "Don't got time for it."

"I swear, no cow dung involved," Master Mirror said. "Ciri is missing and I'm worried for her. She's a strong girl but even she can bite off more than she can chew, and I think she might need your help."

"Still not answering the question, O'Dimm," Geralt pressed. "What is your business with Ciri?"

"Like I said. She's a child of the Elder Blood. Got to keep an eye on them."

Geralt grunted and decided to try a different tactic. He asked, "Where did she go missing?"

"In another world. One relatively close by and fraught with danger. Honestly the kind of world that'd be in need for a witcher."

"And you can't rescue her yourself? Why?" Geralt asked. "You always seemed willing to help those out in need for a price."

Master Mirror shook his head as he said, "There are powers at work greater than mine. Cosmic laws that must be obeyed. I can't act directly, but through an intermediary, such as yourself, I can help you save Ciri from whatever dark fate awaits her in that far off world. I swear, Geralt, I'm not here to trick you."

Geralt replied with the obvious answer.

"Prove it."

O'Dimm reached into the shadows and pulled out a broken sword. Even in the dim candlelight he could make out its construction. It was a silver sword of simple but elegant make of Gnomish design. No frills and with a blade made of silver. It had a name, and knew it. He'd given it its name. There was dried blood on the broken blade. Human, or humanoid at least, judging by the color. There was also human, or humanoid, blood on the hilt.

"It's the real and original," O'Dimm said. "Take it if you wish, as proof of my good intent in this."

Geralt approached Master Mirror just close enough to take the sword. The silver sword was lighter than he remembered it, no doubt due to being broken. But the runes were the same ones he'd commissioned Master Ort to carve into it, and they carried the same magical spoor.

He looked from the sword to Gaunter O'Dimm. Gerald said, "Okay. Let's say you've convinced me. How do I get to Ciri?"

O'Dimm's smile stretched from slightly oversized ear to oversized ear. He handed Geralt a small crest, like what a noble would wear. It was a shield colored red and yellow with a tower over which a dark arch with lines that was like a black sun rose. Behind the shield was an intricately formed steel raven's head, tail feathers, and talons.

"Fix that to your breast when you are ready, and my carriage shall carry you to where Ciri was last seen," O'Dimm said. "Be warned thrice. First, when you travel do not look out the windows least you wish enlightenment the kind that scholars seek and must never received. Second, be quick in your preparations for time is of the essence. Third, pack plentifully for there will be no return until the quest is complete. Do you understand, Geralt."

Geralt grunted in the affirmative.

"Then I wish you luck, White Wolf," Gaunter O'Dimm said, stepping back into the shadows. The flames went from magicked blue to normal golden red. The broken hilt and blade of Zireael was still in his hand, as was the crest. There was no magic to detect in the crest, but Geralt had been around this road before. Nothing was as it seemed, but Ciri was in danger. There was no doubt about that.

_Ciri_, Geralt thought. _Where are you? What have you gotten us into this time?_

Feeling that no sleep would find him this night, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, set about preparing for the journey ahead as lightning crashed, thunder boomed, and rain fell like the tears of the gods.

By the time dawn's golden light was shining over the mountains Geralt was ready. A large rucksack filled with potions, provisions, and a sleeping mat was slung across one shoulder. Across his back was a steel sword, a simple but effective model with the Wolf School crest on its hilt, and the magical silver blade known as _Aerondight_. He wore the armor of Kaer Morhen; light and flexible but still more than capable of protecting against glancing hits and slashes. Across his shoulders he wore a heavy grey travelling cloak. The same one he wore when he was hunting Yennefer with Vesemir.

Geralt wondered what sage advice the old witcher would have to offer him as he clasped the raven and shield crest to his breast. Before he could even wonder a stage coach with no driver lead by a pair of pitch black horses came trotting up the road to Corvo Blanco, stopping in front of the manor house. The coach's door opened by itself, showing a plushly upholstered interior colored imperial purple with gold buttons.

Geralt breathed a deep breath and resettled his rucksack on his shoulders. He wished he had more time to spare. More time to gather allies and information. Triss was far away, serving as court sorceress for some king hundreds of leagues away. Yennefer was off on some research quest. He had no idea where Zoltan or Regis or, hell, even Dandelion was. To speak nothing of Eskel or Lambert. There was no doubt in Geralt's mind that O'Dimm had planned it this way, but what could he do?

_Keep an open mind_, Geralt told himself. Assume nothing. _Just find Ciri and get her home, safe._

With his will as solid as the steel of his sword, he stepped into the carriage and closed the door behind him. The carriage began moving as the horses went clopping off with the Sword of Destiny in their charge to the new world, where Ciri waited.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 - The Road to Hell **

Geralt didn't feel the transition when it came, but he saw it when the golden rays of dawn were abruptly replaced with the black of night. He reached to move the heavy curtains aside to get a better look at what had happened but stopped just short, remembering O'Dimm's warning.

So instead he sat and waited. He waited for exactly seven minutes and then the night was replaced with the bright ambiance of midday, and the smooth road gave way to bumps and potholes that could wake the dead. Now he brushed the heavy curtains aside and beheld a forest of tall trees packed closely together with leaf covered branches so thick and numerous it was pitch black underneath the canopy, passing by so fast the trees were a blur.

Geralt had seen forests like those before, usually when on a contract. They never once held anything good or wholesome. He swore he could see eyes in those woods. Geralt made sure his swords were within easy reach, just in case.

The master witcher eventually accepted that no monsters or brigands were going to attack any time soon and began to meditate to pass the time. He was dimly aware of the rough road turning and curving like a serpent, and it was long indeed. The sun was setting when the axels had enough and broke apart. The carriage bucked in a particularly deep pothole and landed hard. It rocked Geralt to full awakeness and grasping his rucksack as it launched at his face.

"Damn it!" Geralt growled as the horses whinnied in protest as they dragged the carriage through the rough road, stopping almost as soon as the axle broke. "Figures something like this would happen."

Shouldering his cloak and rucksack, Geralt climbed out of the carriage. He examined the landscape as he stepped out, and now noticed the scores of grown over tombstones that dotted the treeline. He also noticed that there was something sickly yellow growing out of the trees as well. His medallion pulsed and jingled on its chain. This wood was enchanted, and not in a nice fairy tale way.

Geralt unhitched one of the horses and let it loose, keeping the other one to ride. Wishing he had a saddle and bridle, he laid out his cloak instead and climbed upon its back. With a prod he sent it forward, muttering, "Let's go, Roach."

The horse snorted at the name but made no further comment, and marched forward.

The sun set below the horizon and the last light faded. Geralt got a torch out of his pack and lit it. The Witcher would live to regret this decision as what sounded like thunder cracked, and the horse reared in surprise and fear.

"Woah, Roach!" Geralt said, gripping the mane and keeping the beast from bolting. Geralt managed to keep it in place as a dozen men came out of the forest on both sides of the road. Three had long rods of metal and wood, one of which was smoking at the end. The rest were armed with short swords and leaf bladed knives.

"I don't suppose you gents can tell me where the nearest town is?" Geralt asked.

One of them was a massive mountain of meat and wielded a barbed cat-o-nine tails. Presumably he was the leader, as he grunted out words in response. "Sure, friend. We'll point ya at the hamlet, but it'll cost you."

"You take florens? Crowns?" Geralt asked as he took in the locations and stances of the brigands. They were probably deserters judging by how they carried themselves and their weapons, not to mention their equipment.

"We'll take it all," the mountain said. "Be a good lad and we'll let you keep your life. Maybe."

The bandits chortled darkly at their leader's jest, or at least what passed for it among brigands.

"You don't want to do this," Geralt sighed.

"Actually, I think we do. Get his blades. They look nice."

The bandits pressed in. Geralt dismounted and put his hands up as if in surrender. With the horse at his back there were only a handful to deal with. They would be easy. The hard part would be the men with those strange metal and wood rods. He didn't know how many charges they had or how accurate they had, or if the Quen Sign could protect him from a direct hit.

Four of them pressed in on Geralt. That was probably as good as he was going to get. The Witcher struck fast and struck hard. With a twitch of his fingers and a surge of will, Geralt sent a wave of kinetic force shooting out in front of him. The four bandits went flying, sprawling on the ground like a drunken rabble.

"Kill him!" the mountain of muscled flesh cried, pulling out what looked like a miniature version of the rods his men carried. He took a clumsy aim and fired, and hit Geralt's horse instead of Geralt, who was already moving. With a few quick strides Geralt was next to the bandit leader, and with a rasp of steel on leather and a wicked flash of glinting, razor sharp edge the mountain was gripping his open belly.

The men with the rods brought their weapons up to aim and hesitated as Geralt put himself behind their leader, whose mass kept the witcher hidden from sight. It bought Geralt the few seconds he needed to cast Quen. With a protective shield around him he drew pulled a Dancing Star from his belt, lit it with a mutter of "Igni," and leaned out of cover. One of the men took a shot at him with his thunder rod, and the Quen shield burst like broken glass as a small metal ball stopped just before Geralt's eyes and fell to the ground.

Note to self. Don't let them get a bead on me, Geralt noted coldly as he tossed the Dancing Star.

"Grenade!" one of them shouted and they scattered like roaches under sunlight. They threw themselves to the ground, tossing their weapons aside and curling up against the ground. The Dancing Star exploded in midair and lit their backs on fire. The sweet, sickly smell of burning human flesh filled the air alongside the screaming of men in hideous pain.

Geralt turned on his heel and rushed at the group of four men who still standing and were barely able to make sense of the sudden violence. They rallied as they fell back on their kill-or-be-killed instincts, and rushed at the Witcher, swords and knives raised and eager to taste blood. Geralt stopped just outside of blade reach and cast Aard at them, sending one of them flying right into a tree with a sickening thump of skull cracking against stout wood. The others were staggered by the blast, and that was all the Witcher needed. Steel flashed in the light of their dropped torches. Blood flew through the air and men cried out as their throats were slashed and hearts cut open by swift, precise strikes.

When Geralt came out the other side his armor and sword were drenched in gore, and most of his attackers were dead or wishing they were. The rod men were rolling on the ground trying to put out the fires eating at their flesh. The first group of four Geralt had sent sprawling were only just now getting their feet back under them. They fixed Geralt with bloody toothed snarls. Geralt responded by taking an offensive posture with a two handed grip on his sword, and prepared to fight them as they came at him.

It was about then that the survivors realized the carnage that had occurred while they were flat on their backs. In mere seconds this one man had slaughtered their boss and most of their comrades, and he still had more to offer. One of them just dropped his blades and ran. His friends looked between him and Geralt.

"Get out of here," Geralt snarled, raising his sword to a ready striking position.

Their morale broke and they ran, leaving their screaming comrades to their grisly fate. Once Geralt was sure they weren't going to bother him, he gave the burning men what little mercy he could afford. He used the dead leader's cloak to wipe the blood clean from his sword blade.

"Sons of bitches shot my horse," he grumbled as he yanked his travelling cloak from the dead beast's back and shouldered his rucksack after making sure none of the potion vials had broken. They hadn't. Not bothering to take a torch, he walked down the long road in utter darkness with only his witcher sight and moonlight to guide him.

Geralt walked well through the night until the dawnlight shown, and took his rest against a tombstone for an hour as the sun came up. Once morning was well underway he resumed his journey, nibbling on hard tac and sipping at one of his cantines as he walked. By late afternoon he saw the chimney smoke of a settlement. By late evening he arrived at the outskirts of a hamlet.

The hamlet was, to put it simply, a shithole to shame even the war ravaged wastelands of the Northern Kingdoms. The buildings that had at one point stood proudly with brightly painted sides were now dilapidated ruins that had received many patchworks over the years. A squad of guardsmen in heavy armor and wielding potent looking weapons guarded the bridge that lead from the forest to the hamlet. They spotted Geralt emerging from the forest and challenged him.

"Oye!" one of them yelled. "Who goes there?"

"Geralt of Rivia!" Geralt replied, coming to a stand still. Even at close to forty feet distance he could tell that they were agitated and on edge. No sense in provoking them when diplomacy could solve this.

"What's your business here, Geralt of Rivia?" the same guardsman demanded.

"I'm looking for a woman!" he replied. That got a chuckle from the guardsmen.

"How'd you get through the forest all by yourself?" One of the men asked. "You a witch or something?"

"No, I'm a Witcher!" Geralt replied.

"The sodding fuck is a witcher?" another man spat.

"Professional monster killer. You going to let me in or are we going to yell at eachother all evening?"

The guards looks among each other. Most of them shrugged until one of them came to a decision. The one with the big brain yelled, "You're welcome in town so long as you don't get up to no funny business, and you put those swords of yourselves to good use if the bell is tolled."

"Got it," Geralt replied. "How often does it toll?"

The guardsmen looked at him like he was hopelessly stupid. They sighed, shook their heads, and proceed to pretend he didn't exist except as something to be viewed with suspicion and hate.

Well at least that feels like home, Geralt said to himself as he passed by them into the hamlet proper.

As he passed the outer markers of the settlement the muddy roads turned to cobblestones and the buildings started to seem less rundown and more patchwork. Some of them seemed down right habitable, even! The few people still out and about had their cloaks drawn close and they favored Geralt with cautious glares and guarded glances.

Eventually the road lead him to the town square, where a well sat with a broken statue nearby. Geralt felt his eyes drawn to the statue, and found out why. Sitting with one arm propped on his knee was Master Mirror, smiling that charming, roguish smile of his.

"Geralt!" he said, lifting his hands and spreading them in welcome. He slid off the pedestal and approached Geralt. "I'm so glad you were able to make it safely! I was getting worried about you, you know."

"Yeah," Geralt said. "Ran into a little trouble on the way here. Sorry about the horse."

"Think nothing of it, my friend!" Master Mirror said magnanimously. "Wasn't my horse anyway. Now, what do you think of this charming little town?"

Several responses competed for Geralt's tongue, most of them glib. He decided on being simple and stoic. He said, "I've seen worse. Feels like the place is under siege."

"That's because it is," O'Dimm said, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "It's like I told you. This place is in dire need of a Witcher. Especially one of your caliber."

"I'm not interested," Geralt said, flatly. "Where's Ciri?"

"According to my sources, up there."

Master Mirror pointed up towards the rising moon. In the far distance was what looked like a manor house in ruins.

"Alright," he said. "Seems simple enough."

Geralt started making his way towards the ruined manor, but O'Dimm put a restraining and on his shoulder.

"Hold on, Geralt," the thing in man's shape cautioned. "That way lies danger that you cannot fight alone. Not even a Master Witcher of your skill can fight the Darkness that hides underneath the manor. The Darkness that now holds Ciri hostage."

"I'm in no fucking mood for your games, O'Dimm," Geralt snapped, turning to face him. "Just tell me where I need to go, who I need to talk to, and what I need to kill."

O'Dimm raised his hands defensively. He said, "Okay, Master Witcher. Go to that tavern over yonder. Go talk to the young fop buying the veterans a drink. He will explain everything."

Geralt glanced at the tavern and asked, "Should I mention your name?"

"Oh, I'm just a humble mirror merchant," Gaunter O'Dimm said. "My name carries nothing but sand with it."

Geralt gave O'Dimm one last glare, then settled his gaze on the tavern.

If there's one constant across kingdoms and dimensions, it's the tavern. It always smells of tobacco with a heavy haze in the air from pipe smoke and the fireplace. Competing with the pipe stench is the smell of cooking meat and strong drink. It's also warm, not just from the fire but also from the mass of bodies inside. Men and women seeking an escape from a hard day's work with a little honest debauchery.

Geralt had been part of those crowds before. He knew how to navigate them. He moved through the crowd like a fish through water to the bar. He leaned on his elbow and hailed down the barkeep. The barkeep was typical of his kind: bald, fat, and wearing a dirty apron while cleaning out a mug with a ragged piece of cloth. The barkeep eyed Geralt through bushy eyebrows and approached him cautiously.

"Haven't seen you before," the barkeep said, as blunt as a board.

"Just got into town," Geralt said. "Looking for a woman."

The barkeep huffed, unimpressed. "Got plenty o' whores upstairs. What's your interest?"

"Not that kind of woman," Geralt replied. "Tall, fit, ash blonde hair, wearing a wolfs head medallion like mine and has two swords on her back. Ring a bell?"

"And if it did?"

"Then I'd be indebted to the man who helped me find her."

"How indebted?"

Geralt reached for his purse and took out thirteen Florens. He placed them on the bar countertop. He said, "It's not local currency but gold's still gold."

"Ain't that the truth," the barkeep said as he wiped up the coins with one meaty paw of a hand. "Yes I've seen an ash haired lass with a pair o' swords on her back. Went up to the manor with the Heir's expedition. Never came back."

"Anyone else come back?" Geralt asked.

"Aye. Reynauld and Dismas. If you're looking for the ashen one, you'd best start with them."

"What do they look like?"

"One's dressed all up in plate mail and the other looks like he'd cut your purse the second you turn yer back. You'll know 'em when ya see 'em."

"Thanks," Geralt muttered, and shoved off the counter. He started looking around the room again, and sure enough he found the pair he was looking for. They were seated in the corner with their faces half drowned in their steins. Sitting with them was a young man, barely sixteen by the look of him and classically handsome, wearing a fancy burgundy coat with a black vest and white undershirt, black riding boots, and black leather trousers. Despite the age gap of at least ten years or more between the two men and the boy, they drank their beer and muttered conversation like veterans.

Geralt approached their table and received three sets of drunken glares.

"Can we help you, sir?" the young fob asked pointedly.

"I'm looking for Dismas and Reynauld," Geralt said.

"You've found them," the man in the thick grey coat said. "Now kindly piss off."

"Sure," Geralt replied smoothly. "As soon as you tell me what happened to Ciri."

The three men's eyes popped with anger and sorrow. The man in platemail said gruffly, "She's dead, friend. Or I hope she is."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 - Ravenspawn**

"What do you mean?" Geralt demanded. "You saw her die?"

"No, I didn't," the knight said. "Thank the Light."

Geralt felt his temper rising. He asked, "Then how do you know she's dead?"

"If you saw what we saw, you wouldn't be asking that question," the man in the heavy coat said.

"What did you see, exactly?" Geralt asked.

The men fixed Geralt with contemptuous glares. The thief asked, "Who the fuck are you?"

"Geralt of Rivia," Geralt replied. "Ciri's friend."

The contempt in their gazes melted away to reveal recognition and shared sorrow. The young noble's brat said, "Ciri told us about you. Sit down and share a drink with us. We'll get drunk to her memory together."

"I'll take your seat," Geralt said as he sat down. "But I won't drink to her memory just yet. I have it on good faith that Ciri is alive."

"How's that?" the noble asked. "You a seer as well as a witcher?"

Geralt put the broken _Ziraeal _on the table. He was tempted to stab it into the wood but decided that the barkeep probably wouldn't appreciate him defacing one of the tables.

The gathered men stared at it with slack jawed awe. They looked at the witcher with a newfound appreciation and suspicion.

"Where did you get that?" the scion asked.

"An… associate of mine brought it to me," Geralt said. "If Ciri was dead he'd have brought the body."

The noble said, "Whoever your associate is, I'd like to meet him."

"No, you don't," Geralt replied. "Brought me nothing but trouble since I met him."

The noble favored Geralt with a smile that was almost patronizing. "Good sir, if you knew even half of what I've been through since I arrived in this god forsaken village, you'd know how quaint that statement is."

Geralt was initially unimpressed by the lad's statement and was about to say so, but he caught the look in his eyes. Glassy and hollow, they were the eyes of someone who'd seen things that would make even a witcher's blood run cold. Or at least wish he'd spent more time preparing before trying to kill it.

His curiosity peaked, Geralt asked, "How do you know Ciri?"

"I was her employer," the young noble said. "These two were part of her party. One of my best until they went up to the Manor."

"What happened at the Manor?"

"We walked into a bloodbath," the knight said. "We entered the manor intending to reclaim the relics needed to delve deeper. Instead we lost our priestess and our best monster killer. I'm guessing you're a monster killer too, based on those swords you got on your back. You her father or something?"

"Adoptive father," Geralt corrected. "What did you face?"

"Can't describe it," the thief said. "Don't want to, either. Let's just say it was big, terrible, and covered in teeth and tentacles. Tore poor Chatwood apart like she was a loaf of bread."

"Poor Chatwood," the knight echoed. "May she rest in peace."

"Here here," the noble said.

The three lifting their tankards and drank.

Geralt took a different track. He said, "Don't mean to interrupt your mourning, but back to Ciri. Why do you think she died?"

"The thing was distracted eating Chatwood," the knight said, "but its fel companions came in on us like hounds scenting blood. Dismas had a hole in his arm and my sword was broken. Ciri told me to grab Dismas and run while she held them off. Took both swords in hand and cut into the fiends like a dervish. Then one of them broke. I grabbed Dismas and ran. Didn't stop running until I reached the hamlet."

The knight, presumably Reynauld, took hold of his tankard in a white knuckled grip.

"You did the right thing," Dismas said. "You got us out of there like she told you to."

"I am a warrior of Light!" Reynauld roared, standing as he cried to the world. "I am a veteran of seventeen times seventeen battles! I have fought in every crusade and war against heathen and demon! I killed scores of undead abominations and slew the swine in their hundreds! I have faced eldritch things and bloodsucking monstrosities!"

Reynauld slumped in his chair and said quietly, "And yet despite all of that I could not face the Shuffling Horror that resides in that darkest of dungeons."

"Well, got good news for you. She's not dead," Geralt said. "Just prisoner up there. Fancy a rescue mission?"

Reynauld stared into his tankard, shaking his head. "No. No! I won't go back in there! I'm not strong enough to fight that monster!"

The noble placed his hand on Reynauld shoulder and said, comfortingly, "Don't worry, friend. Nobody's asking you to go back." The noble looked at Geralt. "Let's go outside for some air, Mr. Geralt."

"Alright," Geralt said.

When the two were outside the nobleman said, "Let me introduce myself. My name is Rogero. I am the Heir to this land and the estate on the hill."

Geralt nodded and said nothing. Rogero kept talking.

"Ciri came to us about five months ago. Said she was here to help, and damned if she didn't help. She, Reynauld, Dismas, and Chatwood were my best team. Never failed a mission until I sent them up to the manor house itself. If Ciri is alive, then I want to find her as much as you do."

"Help me find her, then," Geralt said.

"I will," Rogero said, "but with Reynauld and Dismas like they are they're no use to anyone, and I have nobody else to send with you."

"Go alone, then."

"I admire your courage and stubbornness, but one man alone will die a gruesome death. So let me help you."

"Thought you said you had no one to send with me," Geralt pointed out.

"Not to the Manor House," Rogero said. "However if Ciri is alive then she's probably hiding somewhere along the Old Road leading up to the Manor from the hamlet. I can assemble a team to go with you and guide you through the Weald, the Warrens, even the Ruins if need be. Anywhere short of the Manor."

Geralt considered his options. A local guide and some extra muscle would be of use. Really what reason other than pride did he have to say no?

"Fine," the witcher said. "I'll take your help, but if we don't find her I'll go to the manor alone if need be. When do we go?"

"I'll need time to assemble the expedition and gather supplies," Rogero said. "A day at the most, I swear."

"Alright," Geralt said.

"Good!" Rogero said. "Now how about we go back inside? I'll buy you a drink and tell you all I can about the local terrain."

Geralt nodded. The two men went inside, none the wiser as Master Mirror smiled on, confident that all was going according to plan.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 - Sulphur and Gunpowder**

"So what does a Witcher do, exactly?" Dismas asked.

"Ciri never told you?" Geralt asked.

It was about midnight in the tavern. Everyone had gone home or retired to their rooms upstairs with the exception of Geralt, Rogero, and Dismas. Reynauld had been hauled to his room earlier.

"She gave us the basics," Dismas admitted, "but I'd like to hear about it from the professional."

"Not much to say, really," Geralt said. He was two steins into the beer and felt his tongue loosening. "We hunt monsters. Lift curses on occasion. Not a lot of monsters to kill lately, though. Did our job too well."

Dismas nodded. "Must be nice in your world."

Geralt's eyes popped open and he tensed up, ready to make a break for it if the bandit or the knight tried to do anything.

"Relax, Geralt," Rogero said. "Ciri told us she was a world walker. Figures you'd be one as well."

Geralt did not entirely relax, but he didn't feel in danger so he shook his head and said, "Shit still stinks there. Honestly your world might be better if they've never created witchers."

"Oh we still have monsters," Rogero said. His voice took on an incredible bitterness and hatred. "My ancestor spent my family's fortune creating them. All because he was fucking bored. Son of a bitch might've killed us all if his notes are right."

"How you figure?" Geralt asked.

Rogero looked at Geralt like he was stupid, but softened as his alcohol-soaked brain remembered that the witcher was a new arrival to the hamlet and the world. "My family has always had their fingers in the occult. Our wealth and prestige allowed us great tolerance from church and crown, and we abused that trust as far we could. My ancestor took it to the next level. According to his notes he discovered something of unfathomable power underneath the family manor. He went searching for it and found it, and in the process damned us all."

"Why haven't you told the king yet? Bet an army or two could fix your problem fast."

Rogero shook his head. "The King's Wars have bled the land dry in terms of manpower. I've pulled every string I've could, called in every favor, and I haven't heard back yet. Aside from the mercenaries who come for the promise of gold and glory, all I've got are a demoralized town militia and hope."

An unhappy silence took hold as the men contemplated their beer. Geralt decided to bring up something that he might as well investigate. He said. "Fought some bandits on the way here. Had some kind of weapon that launched small metal balls at high speed."

"We call 'em guns," Dismas said. "Damned effective weapons if I do say so myself. Bitch to reload, though."

"Any idea where I can get one?" Geralt asked.

"Guns, shot, and powder are in short supply," Rogero said. "The hamlet has a weaponsmith but making muskets and pistols takes more advanced foundries than a humble blacksmith like Angus has in his shop."

Geralt grunted. "Guess its bolts and crossbows for me still."

"Those have their uses," Rogero said, helpfully. "Silver and blessed steel have their place here. In some cases they're more effective than guns."

Geralt noted that for later. He then said, "By the way, how aggressive are the local monsters? This town seems kind of… underpopulated for its size."

"You can thank my ancestor for that," Rogero spat. "The bastard brought in an army of bandits and outlaws and cutthroats to cull the village and keep the survivors in line. When he died they looted the town and deserted into the countryside. As if the Old Road wasn't dangerous enough already!"

"Guessing you can't bribe them off with gold?" Geralt offered.

"Never!" Rogero declared, smacking his tankard on the table. "Fuck that! I won't waste my gold or trust on those brigands, even if I wasn't bleeding myself dry just outfitting these expeditions and keeping the mercs happy!"

"Noted," Geralt said.

"If I might ask," Dismas asked. "How does the whole silver swords thing work? Silver isn't exactly the best metal to make blades out of."

"Most monsters don't wear armor, natural or otherwise," Geralt replied. "Razor sharp metal will cut flesh easily no matter the type. Most Witchers use silver plated steel swords and pay through the nose for blacksmiths to fix our blades."

"Most implies you've found a better way?" Dismas ventured.

"Magic swords also work against fiends and undead. Got _Aerondight _from a Goddess for being a good sport."

Dismas grew a shiteating smile. "You named your sword?"

"Already named when I got it," Geralt said. "Don't really see the point in naming weapons, honestly. Doesn't make it sharper or sturdier."

"Maybe Reynauld can tell us," Rogero said. "After he sobers up."

"I hate knights," Geralt muttered. "Arrogant sons of bitches, all of them."

"Reynauld ain't so bad," Dismas offered. "He earned his knighthood on the battlefield. Fantastic leader when he doesn't have a stick up his arse. Didn't want to be a knight, either. Got conscripted and found out he was good at killing."

"Know him well?" Geralt asked.

"When you're out on the trail with nothing but stories to share, you either get to know them like family or you go insane from thinking about what you've seen that day."

"See a lot of bad things?"

Dismas looked at Geralt with dark, haunted eyes. He seemed to be contemplating what exactly to tell the Witcher, no doubt picking and choosing the worst stories to tell him to get his point across. Or which to spare the Witcher.

Eventually, he said, "I've been here longer than anyone else, 'cept Reynauld and Rogero. I've fought undead, necromancers, swine men, fish men, regular men, fungal zombies, vampires, and a few things that have no proper name except what they do. So yes, I have seen a lot of bad things."

Geralt nodded. "If I didn't know any better I'd say you were a Witcher."

"I'll take that as a compliment!" Dismas said. "If you don't mind me asking, what's the toughest monster you've killed?"

"An Elf king," Geralt said.

"You count elves as monsters?" Dismas asked.

Geralt shook his head. "Ordinarily no, but this one was a monster. One of the worst. Tried to kidnap Ciri to use her blood to open up more paths between worlds. Day I cut him down was one of my best."

"You said you where her adoptive father," Roger said. "What about her birth parents? Ciri was always mum about them."

Geralt wondered if he should tell them. If Ciri didn't tell them about her birth parents what right did he have to talk about them? He glanced between them. The look in their eyes said despite his evidence to the contrary, they still thought she was dead. Maybe learning some more about their friend would ease their spirits? So he told them.

"Damn!" Dismas declared once Geralt has finished. "I knew she was special but… Damn! She didn't seem the royal type!"

"I knew she was some kind of noble," Rogero said with a small amount of smugness. "Knew it by the way she carried herself and spoke. Didn't figure her to be daughter of an emperor, though."

"Ciri's not one to put on airs," Geralt said with approval in his voice. "One of her better qualities."

"So it's been said," said a new voice that was annoyingly familiar to Geralt's ears. Geralt glared unamused as Master Mirror took a seat at the empty chair that was once Reynauld's. "One day you'll have to tell me about that, Geralt. I've always wondered why humans think that thinking yourself lesser than you are is a good thing."

"You mind, friend?" Dismas said, not quite threatening but definitely not welcoming either. "Private conversation."

"But I'm a friend of Geralt's!" Master Mirror proclaimed. "And of good Sir Rogero's too!"

Geralt looked at Rogero. The young man was pale and eyes were wide with recognition and apprehension.

"We're not friends," Geralt said to Gaunter O'Dimm. He looked at Rogero and asked, "How do you know him?"

"I know his face but not his name," Rogero admitted. "He was the merchant who brought me the letter that-"

"-Brought you to this place," O'Dimm finished. "You're welcome!"

Geralt filed that bit of information away for later. He said, "What do you want, O'Dimm?"

"To tell you that you're about to be attacked," O'Dimm said in cheery helpfulness. "Those brigands that attacked you on the road? They were making their way here to join in the attack, and it's about to begin."

"Shit!" Rogero swore, standing up and reaching for the rapier at his hip. "How many are there?"

"Oh, about four score and seven. They should be attacking right about... Now!"

A moment of silence passed. All three mortals strained their ears to listen but could only hear the crackling of the dying fire.

"Don't hear a thing," Rogero said.

"They're playing it smart," Geralt said. The witcher rose to stand. "Taking out the guards quietly."

Dismas nodded as he too stood, reaching into his coat. "Aye. That's what I'd do were I them."

"Shit!" Rogero swore as he too joined them in standing. His soft hands went to the rapier at his side. "Dismas, wake everyone up! Geralt and I will alert the guard!"

"Too dangerous to risk you, sir," Dismas said. "You get everyone up. I'll get the bell. Geralt, protect this man with your life."

"I don't need a bodyguard!" Rogero cried.

"Don't have time to argue either," Geralt pointed out. He looked at Dismas. "Inn is the safest place for him. I'll go with you."

"Fine," Dismas said, annoyed. "Try and keep up."

Witcher and highwayman burst out of the tavern door at a dead sprint. Geralt followed Dismas through the streets and alleyways of the hamlet. The stars were out in force and the moon was waxing gibbous full. Always in their line of view was a tall church spire where the bell no doubt was. Geralt kept one eye on Dismas and another on his surroundings. Nothing stirred except the occasional alley cat. No noise could be heard but the crickets and their heavy footsteps. If it weren't for O'Dimm's warning, Geralt would have thought all was well. Perhaps Master Mirror was having them for a laugh?

The church loomed in front of them and Dismas slowed so he didn't hit the great oaken doors at full speed. He did hit it with enough force to cause a great ruckus.

"Reverend!" Dismas yelled, pounding on the door with his fists as hard as he could. "Abbot! Toll the bell! We're under attack! Toll the bell, for Light's sake!"

Geralt looked about behind and around them, drawing his miniature crossbow with his offhand. His witcher's ears could hear something indistinct. Something was moving out there. A great many somethings.

"Abbot! Ring the bell!" Dismas bellowed.

"Fire your pistol!" Geralt barked. "They're almost on us!"

Dismas stopped pounding. A rustling sound could be heard as he reached for his weapon. Geralt could see shadows moving.

"Dismas!" Geralt cried.

A shot rang out at such close range that Geralt felt his ears ringing and deafened, hopefully temporarily.

Torches across half the town were suddenly lit. More shots rang out and men began to cry. Then women began screaming. Houses began to catch fire. All this happened within moments of each other.

"We're too late," Geralt said. "The town's fallen."

"Not while I have something to say about it!" said a familiar third voice.

Geralt turned to see a knight holding a two handed longsword. His visor was down but Geralt knew who it was.

"Sir Rogero rallies the guard and the others," Reynauld said. "We will fight them head on. Buy them the time they need to prepare."

"Three men against a hundred," Geralt said, clearly not pleased. He sighed, then also said, "Mmh. I've fought worse odds, believe it or not."

"We will make three men feel like three hundred!" Reynauld roared, hoisting his longsword high. "By the Sacred Flame, we will bring ruin to their company! Follow me!"

The knight turned and ran towards the flames and the screaming. Dismas was right on his heels, pistol and dagger in hand. Geralt shook his head, reaffirmed his grip on his sword and crossbow, and followed them.

The three found their first group of bandits before they'd gone a score of steps. Five of them were walking through the streets at a steady pace, casually sticking their torches into the roofs they came across, and then cutting down any who fled out of the houses. The light from their torches and the burning buildings ruined their night vision. They barely had time to notice the gleam of firelight on enemy steel as the trio fell upon them.

Dismas announced their presence with the crack of a pistol shot that felled one wielding a short sword and crude wooden shield, who collapsed backwards like he'd been struck by a hammer. Geralt fired his crossbow at another, this one with a musket. It hit the man in the eye. He screamed in agony as he fell to his knees, grasping the bolt with both hands..

"Thou art judged!" Reynauld yelled as he decapitated a third bandit, sending his head flying into another's chest, arterial blood spraying into the air.

Geralt let his crossbow hand by its corded rope and took hold of his sword in both hands. He drove the tip first into the throat of a fourth brigand, then yanked it out as soon as it had entered. As the man gripped his throat, gurgling black blood from his mouth and the wound, Geralt watched as Reynauld and Dismas despatched the last whoreson.

Reynauld threw powerful strikes that sent the bandit staggering, but the man clearly had some skills as he managed to keep Reynauld from landing a killing blow or wounding strike. His attention was so focused on the knight that he didn't notice Dismas sneaking around and behind him until the highwayman's dagger was in his back. The man gave one last gasp of surprise and dropped his weapon as the life faded from his eyes.

"Five down, eighty-two to go," Geralt said.

"Look there!" someone Geralt did not recognize yelled. He and the other two turned to see a bandit pointing at them. There were seven others with him, five of which were holding muskets.

Geralt threw up the Quen sign and charged at them. They were only thirty feet or so away, but they were aware of him. The spotter raised his gun, took aim, and fired. The shot missed Geralt but it did zoom past his ear, like a bee's buzz. Geralt returned the favor by pulling out a Dragon's Dream bomb and threw it at them. The bandits scattered and were surprised when all it releases was a gas.

A bandit musketeer raised his weapon to his shoulder and fired. The bullet hit Geralt in the chest, and while it was dispersed by the protective spell it did stop the Witcher, sending him spirally to the ground. He turned it into a roll and was on his feet as the spark from the musket ignited the Dragon's Dream mist. Men screamed as a firestorm engulfed most of the group. The nearby houses not already on fire were aflame as men danced. The lucky ones died relatively quickly as their powder exploded, taking them and large chunks of their body into gory and fiery plumes.

Reynauld was right behind Geralt. The knight charged through the dying flames and cut down a bandit swordsman who was busy patting out the fire on his jacket. Geralt followed him into the fray and cut down another one.

"Getting awfully lucky," Dismas said as he ran up, reloading his pistol.

"Yeah," Geralt agreed. "Where's the rally point for the defenders?"

"Town Square," Dismas said. "We need to get there and meet up with the rest."

"Lead the way," Geralt said.

As they ran the ring of steel on steel, crack of gunshots, and the screams of the dying and the fearful began to be heard. It came quickly and like the roar of a thunderstorm. They ran past men and women carrying their belongings and children. They ran past the corpses of villagers slaughtered where they stood, along with the bodies of slain guardsmen and the occasional bandit. The fires burned so numerous and brightly that it seemed like dawn was rising early.

The sound grew louder and the bodies more numerous the closer they got to the town center. They cut down a few strangling bandits engaged in pillaging and other unsavory acts when they found them. When they arrived in the town square they found the battle well underway. The towns guard were mixed in with the bandits, fighting a hundred one-on-one battles with sword, axe, and gun.

"The Light is relentless!" Reynauld cried. "As am I! Forward! To blood and glory!"

The knight charged into the thick of the fighting. Dismas swore under his breath and followed the knight in. Geralt took a moment to survey the battlefield. He saw pockets of resistance forming in the melee, usually centered around individuals wielding great skills and terrible powers.

At the center of one battle within the greater battle was a man with an Ofiri look to him, slinging spells that opened doors from which the blood red outline of tentacles lashed out, snapping necks and strangling men, as well as casting hexes and curses at those champions that showed themselves. At the center of another was a woman that had a ranger's look to her stood on a stack of crates loosing arrows, one every two seconds, into the throng and striking with almost preternatural precision as her bird, a silver feathered falcon, scratched the eyes out of any musketeer that tried to draw aim at her.

There were others as well. A woman with a marksman's eye and a finely made musket firing shots into any bandit leader who showed themselves. Another Ofiri lookalike, this one a woman wielding shield and spear, danced gracefully with her weapon and cut the throats of every bandit within reach of her blade. A man in a mask with golden platemail fashioned like a heavily muscled chest wielding a broken executioner's sword hacked into the throng of warriors like a farm into the summer wheat. Even Rogero was in amongst the killing, wielding rapier and pistol with skill they indicated top level training.

"I am the fury and the flame!" Reynauld roared as he too waded through the blood and the bodies. "I am the Blade of Light and the Sword of Vengeance! Stand to the King's Justice and beg for mercy, for ye shall find none with me!"

Around these extraordinary men and women the town guard rallied. It almost looked like there was hope. Then a large bomb landed in the midst of the circle around the ranger archer. She noticed and barely had time to get away before it exploded, killing or maiming a dozen guardsmen.

Geralt followed the arc of the bomb back it its source. In the middle of a throng of bandits whose equipment was in almost pristine condition was a large man, or a miniature giant, dressed in furs and holding a massive tower shield in his off hand was throwing bombs at whatever source of resistance he could see. Any guardsman or champion who tried to stop him was cut down by the elite of the bandit army.

"Guess that's where I'm needed," Geralt mused to himself, then charged into the fray himself. With steel sword in hand he cut and sliced his way through the throng of bandits, getting ever closer to the leader and his barrel of bombs.

One of the leader's bodyguards noticed Geralt approaching. He made for the witcher with an arrogant slowness, sword and dagger drawn and gleaming in the firelight. Geralt drew his crossbow, fitted a new bolt, and fired it. The bandit grunted and reeled as the bolt impaled his shoulder, forcing him to drop the dagger, but he pressed closer to the witcher, swiping with his sword to decapitate him.

Geralt bent like a reed in the wind around the sword blade. He brought up his own sword and made two swings. The first cut the bandit bodyguard's sword hand at the wrist. The second sent the bandit's head flying.

Two more bandit elite pressed in. Geralt sent them screaming and reeling with a blast of flame from his hand. As they danced in a pyre consisting of their own clothing, Geralt sprinted past them and charged at the bandit leader.

The miniature giant saw him coming and tossed a lit bomb in Geralt's path. The witcher barely had time to summon a Quen shield before it exploded in his face, sending him flying backwards and on to his ass. He kept his grip on his sword and used his legs to turn the fall into a roll.

"Fancy tricks, boy," the giant snarled. "I've not seen you before. My name is Vvulf, and this town is mine. You're good with blade and spell. Could use a man like you. Lift your blade to mine and I'll see you drowned in gold!"

"Not interested," Geralt said.

"Shame. I'll still have your blades, though!"

"Give it your best shot!" Geralt spat back, and charged at a dead run towards the bandit lord. He threw a Dancing Star at the king of thieves. Vvulf batted the bomb away with his tower shield, sending it flying away to explode harmlessly in the air. Vvulf brought out a thick bladed bastard sword just in time to block Geralt's swing. For a moment the blade held against each other, and Geralt used that moment to blast Vvulf with a wave of telekinetic energy. The bandit lord grunted and stumbled backwards, but recovered quickly. He caught Geralt's arcing sword on the shield, then charged the witcher.

Cold steel impacted Geralt in a full body tackle that broke his nose and chipped a tooth. Geralt stumbled and fought to keep his balance. Vvulf thrusted and caught Geralt in the stomach. The chainmail held but it knocked the wind out of the witcher. Snarling, Vvulf pressed his bastard sword into Geralt's gut, forcing the witcher back.

Forming a fist with his off hand, Geralt batted away the pressing blade. Vvulf overreached and stumbled slightly. Geralt, unable to lift his sword in time to strike, pressed in and slammed his forehead into Vvulf's nose, which broke with a sickening crunch. Vvulf staggered back but was clearly used to having his nose broken, because he was already raising his sword to cut the witcher down as Geralt summoned the last of his will to cast the last spell.

Geralt contorted his fingers to summon arcane energy and pressed his palm into the dirt. A ring of symbols like an hourglass formed around Vvulf and Geralt. Vvulf's face contorted in black rage as his every motion was as slow as molasses in winter.

Taking his sword in two hands, Geralt thrust up and into Vvulf's throat. The bandit lord was genuinely surprised as he gurgled up his life's blood. He dropped his bastard sword and shield as his arms dropped to their sides. Geralt yanked out his sword. Vvulf said something inarticulate, then collapsed in a heap.

It was only then that Geralt realized that he was being watched. He was being watched by the remainder of the bandit elite along with several guardsmen and bandit warriors.

"He killed the boss!" one of the bandits said. "The boss is dead!"

Fear and indecision rippled through the bandit ranks. Seeing his opportunity, he removed Vvulf's head from his shoulders and held it high for all to see. When he threw it at the remaining bodyguards and snarled, bringing his sword to bear, the enemy broke. The bandits dropped their weapons and ran. Geralt made sure they were actually running, then turned back to the din of battle. Some bandits still held on, either out of what passed for bravery among their kind or because they hadn't noticed their boss's death.

Geralt tested his sword wrist. He was tired from so much spell casting and fighting, but there was still more killing to be done. Taking his sword into a two handed grip, he charged back into the gray.

True dawn was breaking when Geralt finally had a chance to sit down. He was covered in blood, most of it not his, and every muscle was sore and spent. On his left, Reynauld took a seat. The knight was somehow more drenched in gore than the witcher. His sword blade was notched and dented in places, and his plate was bent and battered.

"Justice has been served," Reynauld said. "The Light has tested us today, and we were not found wanting."

Several responses came to Geralt's mind as he watched townsmen and guardsmen walk among the field of corpses, giving mercy to the groaning and weeping of the dying. Instead the witcher grabbed his flask and shook it. There was a healthy weight to its swinging, indicating it was full.

"Ever tried vodka?" Geralt asked the knight.

"Never heard of it," Reynauld said. The knight took off his helm. Blood flecked his bearded face, but Geralt noted Reynauld had all his teeth and they were intact as he smiled. "Willing to try it though."

Geralt passed the canteen to the knight, who took it with a nod of thanks. Reynauld tried a sip of it and gagged, coughing as the aroma overpowered his throat.

"Flame, that burns!" Reynauld swore.

Geralt smiled. A shadow fell over him and he looked up. A bloody and bandaged Rogero stood over Geralt. The young man looked grim and he spoke with equal grimness. "Seventy-three dead, forty-seven wounded, as of last count. I saw your battle, Witcher. You have my thanks for killing that beast."

"You're welcome," Geralt said.

Rogero continued as if Geralt had not spoken. "It might be more than a day before I can have an expedition fitted, but you have my word, Geralt, we will find Ciri if she yet lives."

Geralt nodded. He watched Rogero wander off to direct something. The witcher rested his arms on his knees, keeping his own council as Reynauld took another sip of vodka.


End file.
